The grey has come.  Not dark, but a grey, monochromatic blanket that is winter.  This is not like it was back home when we were growing up when winter would come and feet of snow would come with it.  This is a few inches of snow, a complete lack of leaves on the trees and every Canadian Geese among the living outside my office window looking for food, warmth, cover.

If it is possible for a tree to be beautiful, devoid of leaves, as near death in its appearance as possible, and totally alone in its place in the middle of the vast parking lot where the geese are wandering, this tree is just that.  It is odd because the tree does not look out of place, rather it makes the parking signs, with their yellow concrete bases, and the light towers, and the fifty five gallon trash cans painted blue throughout the lot, all fade away.  The tree demands the eyes attention somehow as if it were standing alone in the middle of a giant hill top meadow thick with days of fresh snow.

If I were to try and walk across that meadow now, and to climb the hill behind it, as I have done before, I doubt very much that I could make it, or even that I would survive the effort.  It does not seem that long ago now, but it is, when I layered up from head to toe, long johns, top and bottom, wool socks, ski pants, turtle necks plural, the thickest sweater ever knitted, Northface fleece and parka, ski hat, goggles, and gloves, just to get to the top of the hill, above the trees, to get the shot of the valley, the farm, the barn, and the horses.  One of those days when it took almost as long to layer up as it did to reach the goal.

Thank you again for getting this far with me.